Boy
by Fyrie
Summary: A look at 6-year-old Draco Malfoy's life - in the style inspired by Jason Isaacs interpretation of Lucius Malfoy.


Notes: This is entirely inspired by reading far too many interviews with Jason Isaacs, who is playing Lucius Malfoy in CoS. He figured that Draco must have been an abused kid for him to be such a "obnoxious little git", so I decided to take a look at the family…relationship, if you can call it that. 

It's also written in present tense – don't be confused!

___________________________

Grey eyes peer carefully around the dark wood of the massive doorframe that leads into his parents' bedroom. Small fingers touch the panel of the door and push it a little wider.

She's there.

Sitting on a low stool, before her dresser, she studies her image in the mirror. Her body is clad in robes of silvery grey, that only serve to highlight her features. 

One slim hand brushes through her sheet of silver-blonde hair, sweeping it back over shoulders that are straightened proudly. Her beautiful face is directed at the mirror in front of her.

She is beautiful, always beautiful.

"Mother," he whispers, timidly edging into the room, close enough to the door to leave, should it be required.

"Draco."

The quiet resonance in that single word makes him tremble. Everything about her is so beautiful, so magical. Like a Fairy Queen in the magical stories that his nurse had read to him. 

Taking her murmur of his name as a positive sign, the boy moves towards her. His small feet scuff on the deep green carpet that covers the floor, as he stares at her with wonder and delight. 

Normally, he does not enter the bedchamber of his parents. It irritates his father, but now...his mother is there. His beautiful mother. He has to be there, he has to see her and worship her beauty.

He barely notices the enormous room: the immense, dark bed, hung with drapes of silver-green, always silver and green; the rough stone of the walls; the dark cabinets and the dressers lining the walls. 

He only sees her.

She does not see him, though.

Her fingertips brush down her cheek, which is pale with just enough of a pinkish glow to make her look radiant. A frown wrinkles her smooth brow. Even that wrinkle is perfection on her lovely face.

Draco watches.

So rarely does he see his mother...

One small hand rises, touches her sleeve of her robes. Soft. Silk.

She pulled away, turns to look at him. Grey eyes meet silver and the boy is quite breathless. She must be an angel. Or a fae. Only an angel or a fae could ever be as lovely as his mother.

"What do you want, Draco?"

The boy stares at her.

"May..." he knows he should not ask. He knows that she will never consent, just as she had never consented before. He knows, however, that he must ask, even just to hear her laugh at him. "May I embrace you, mother?"

And laugh, she does.

"You know that you have your nurse to embrace you, Draco," she chides. Her laughter is like the tinkling of small, silver bells. Her lovely lips rise in a smile that doesn't reach her distant eyes. 

"I know, mother," he whispers, his eyes falling. "But I would like to embrace you."

The smile smooths into the expression he knows well.

"Why, boy?" she asks. There is a thin layer of frost on the words.

Draco studies the floor, the carpet thick around his slippered feet. He tries to form the words, but no sound comes from his throat. He raises his eyes to hers, his lower lip trembling.

She called him 'boy'.

No longer is he Draco to her. 

"Because you are so beautiful, mother," he whispers through trembling lips, blinking hard to fight back tears that are making his eyes sting. He is not permitted to weep. It is a sign of weakness.

A little of the frost in her eyes recedes. 

"Yes," she murmured, turning her eyes back to the mirror. "I am."

He longs to ask again, hoping and dreaming that one day, perhaps, she will turn and open her arms to him. Perhaps, one day, she will touch his face, smooth his hair, even kiss his brow.

"Boy," she says. The frost is returning. "I must make ready. Go and amuse yourself."

The boy nods, sadly. 

He turns and walks from the room, into the long, looming hallways of the Mansion that is his home. It is a big, beautiful mansion, but he would exchange all of it for a kiss and a kind word from his mother's lips.

Silence hangs over his head, as he walks towards the staircase that leads up to the level where his bedchamber is hidden.

It is quiet there too.

Toys line the walls, in shelves and boxes, almost every toy that any child could ever desire among his collection. Many of them are languishing, covered in dust and seldom used.

It is not because he does not appreciate them.

It is simply because he has no one to play with him.

Making his way across the deep, thick carpet, he climbs onto his large bed, where he always sits when he comes to his room. He has no need of the miniature chair before the fireplace, or of the desk.

As they were in his parents' room, the bed is hung with green and silver, the sheets and blankets all the same colour.

Sitting crossed-legged on the deep green cover of his bed, he picks up the book he has been studying, opening it. He can read. He asked his nurse to teach him when the games started to become dull, to let him find some small pleasure in the world.

A sigh slips past his lips.

His mother has forgotten.

She expects him to seek out his nurse, but she has forgotten, forgotten already, that his nurse departed the previous month. He does not wish to go to remind her, because he did not wish to receive more ice.

She has forgotten - with good reason - that it is the fault of Draco's father that his nurse is no longer there and will no longer help him read or play with him or embrace and hold him in the place of his mother.

His fingers touch the page before him, tracing the letters.

He will amuse himself, as his mother asked. 

He always does what she desires.

***

A small, green ball bounces down a long flight of stairs.

The owner of the ball laughs, almost sounding like the child he is, as he chases it.

It is the toy he loves best.

Many of his contemporaries would laugh to see him so amused, but he does not care, grateful to be able to play with something that has the ability to play back, despite being simply under a charm. 

It is a Ball-lone, produced for children who find amusement in simple games.

It is a ball for the lonely.

For the child without friends.

Draco knows that he has no friends. He has associates, part-time companions that have been provided by his father's associates. They are not friends. They are merely there because they must be, from time to time.

They are dull, slow and brainless, much like their fathers.

Draco knows he must feign interest in them, despite their stupidity, he must stay on their good side for his father. His father must maintain the support of his friends and should he, Draco, upset their...offspring...

He tolerates them. They follow him. Much like their respective fathers.

It is an odd sensation, he knows, to hold the dominant role of the group. He is in the role of his own father and yet, as soon as he sees his father, he feels little more than a newborn child.

Sometimes, he knows it is better to be alone.

He catches up with the small ball on the third landing, tossing it and grabbing it out of the air. It fits nicely in his small hands and he bounces it on the landing, ready to roll it down the next flight of stairs into the Entrance Hall.

A gasp escapes him and he steps back.

His father...

Standing in the hall, at the foot of the staircase, his father has clearly just entered their mansion, a group of wizards with him. He has not noticed Draco on the landing, concealed by the darkness.

Light is splintering in from the window high above him, his father directly in the beam, the hall filled with brilliant light, illuminating the silver and green of the tiled floor and the dark wood of the walls, Draco's own small form obscured by the looming shadows.

Fear clenches around his stomach like a fist.

He was to remain unseen today.

He was told by his father at breakfast that, should he be seen, he would be in his father's bad books.

Pain.

Should he stumble into the bad books again, it would mean pain.

He is shaking, cringing back against the wall, the elaborately carved grandfather's clock on the landing pressing against his back. His hands are trembling and his Ball-lone slips from his fingers.

"No!" he screams silently.

The ball bounces down the stairs.

Bounce.

Draco shakes his head.

Bounce.

He starts after it.

Bounce.

He must catch it!

Bounce...

It lands on the floor of the entrance hall and rolls a little way, stopping at the tip of his father's snake-headed staff. His father's grey eyes scan downwards, then look towards the stairs.

Draco freezes halfway down the flight, one shaking hand reaching up to grasp the silver banister. It is cold against his trembling fingers.

"F-father," he whispers.

His father's eyes lock with his, no expression crossing his father's face. The boy quells a whimper, stumbling back a step.

"Draco," his father murmurs. His voice is soft, calm, a breath. Draco bites hard on his lower lip, taking another frightened step back. His father's staff is raised slightly, then crushes down on the small ball. "Go to your room."

Blinking fiercely, Draco risks a look down at his beloved toy. It is lying in pieces. He nods to his father. "Y-y-yes, father," he stammers mechanically.

"I will come to you later, boy," The boy knows that it is both a softly spoken threat and a promise.

Turning, the boy walks stiffly up the stairs. 

Tears are burning in his eyes, tears of despair and terror. He won't let them fall, though, lest his father sees. His father dislikes emotional displays, as much as he dislikes disobedience.

He wants to run, but his father would dislike that also.

Raising his chin, swallowing hard, he keeps slowly walking up the stairs, one small hand always on the banister. Should they ask, he is shivering because it is so cold.

He feels his father's eyes on him. 

He knows his father expects him to cry, to react, but he will not. He will do nothing further to incur his father's wrath.

As soon as he is out of sight, he runs, runs towards his room, shutting the door behind him and pressing his fists against the wood, his forehead resting against his balled hands.

Shaking, he tries with all his might to fight back tears, but can not.

Turning from the door, he unsteadily walks to the bed, climbing up onto the blanket and pulling his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapping around them. 

His grey, fear-filled eyes are fixed on the closed door, as silent tears trickle from his eyes and he wait for his father to come to him.

***

It is dark.

Although there is a full moon, it is obscured by a thick mask of cloud, muffled light trickling through the window of a frightened six-year-old, still curled on his side and staring fearfully at the door of his room.

He recognises the sounds outside.

Wind whispers.

A floorboard creaks under the weight of someone's foot.

Something metal connects with his door, which swings inwards.

Draco sits upright immediately, sliding onto his feet. It feels like his legs have turned to water, but he manages - somehow - to stay upright. 

"F-father."

His father stands in the doorway, the lights from the hall creating him as a monstrous silhouette, divested of his heavy outer robes and furs, his long hair streaming over his shoulders. In his right hand, he holds his staff, his eyes on Draco's face.

"Do you recall what I said to you this morning, boy?" he asks quietly, stepping into the room, the door slamming shut with a gesture from his staff.

He is always 'boy' in these circumstances and it frightens him. He is no longer a son, or a person with a name. He is simply boy. A nameless, worthless thing to be treated as his father wills.

"I-I-I was to remain out of s-s-sight, f-father."

"And what," he says, his voice still emotionless, cold. "Might I have seen standing on the stairs, when my guests arrived?" Draco lowers his head. "I do believe I saw you, boy."

"I-I-I am sorry, f-father."

"Come here, boy."

Shaking, the boy walks to his father, his hands trembling by his sides. He stops in front of his father. Eyes on the foot of the staff. Lower lip held between his teeth so hard he can taste blood.

There is silence.

Every beat of his heart feels like it is in his ears.

He braces himself for the blow he knows will come, his eyes pressing shut.

It seems an eternity, his breath held.

Then it lands.

The back of his father's left hand connects with his left cheek. The boy staggers sideway, his head snapped around. His can feel the burning of the skin and knows there will be an imprint there. 

"What do you have to say for yourself, boy?"

His eyes swimming with pain, he looks up at his father. "I-I'm sorry, f-f-father..."

The blow is repeated, harder, and he feels the tissues inside his cheek burst, blood slick on his tongue.

"What for, boy?" His father's voice is cold, deadly. He blinks hard, swallowing a trickle of blood. He tries to answer. His lips won't co-operate. He is struck again, this time it catches his temple and he stumbles. "What for, boy?" his father repeats.

"I-I-I-I disob-disobeyed you, f-father," he stammers, blinks hard, tries to prevent the stinging tears from falling.

"Yes," His father's fist twists into the front of his loose, black robes, jerking him forwards. "You know I dislike disobedience, boy."

"I-I-I-I'm sorry..." Draco whispers, his eyes filling with more tears.

He knows what is coming and he knows that nothing he can say will appease his father's temper. He also knows that this time, he has no nurse to come to his aid, as his old nurse had...

He is directed towards the desk, shaking.

"Trousers down, boy," he hears the word. 

Shaking fingers tug at his buttons. His robes slip off his shoulders. He undoes his trousers. Lowers them to his ankles. Stares at the dusty desk, at the clean spots where his hands rested last time. 

He hears the hiss of his father's belt being pulled free. Clenches his teeth. Places his small hands against the edge of the desk, bent at the waist. His eyes are burning, but he does not cry.

He knows that he is fortunate. He is still too young...no. Small, not young. He is still too small for the stick. His father could not care less if he were six months of six years. He is, however, small.

That means father resorts to more...traditional methods.

He stares down at the floor, at the dapples of dull light on the carpet. The edge of the desk bites against his palms. His fingertips are white against the dark surface as he waits. Waits for the punishment he knows won't be long in coming. 

Hopes, truly hopes that it will only be the leather. Not the metal. Not again.

The first time, he had begged and pleaded and cried out to his father, searching for any semblance of conscience, finding none and receiving more of a punishment than he had ever expected.

Now, he is experienced.

Gritting his teeth, he presses his lips together and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Father is cruel.

His father loves the terrified anticipation. He knows that Draco's blood is already rushing in his ears and his heart feels like it will rip through his chest at any moment.

A whistle of motion is all the warning he gets.

Crack.

The boy screams.

Always screams...

Only once, though. 

The first pain.

He hears the laugh, the cold chuckle. Struggles to draw a breath, his lungs burning with the effort of breathing. His arms shake, his hands grow slippery with sweat. His legs tremble beneath him.

Swallowing hard, he grits his teeth again, tries to steady his shaking breath. And tries to stay standing on legs that feel boneless. Falling only makes it last longer. Falling means additional pain.

"One day, boy," He hears the words, slippery and insidious in his ear. "You will understand that this is for your benefit."

He jerks as a second blow lands. His eyes burn but he makes no sound. A warm trickle ripples down the back of his thigh. Definitely the buckle. The ooze on his leg can only be blood.

It tickles, Draco realises dizzily. He almost giggles at the stupidity of his body.

A third blow erases thoughts of giggling from his mind. He jerks again. His knuckles whiten, his palms slipping on the desk.

His voice shaking, the boy whispers, "I'm sorry...f-father..."

"You know how redundant that word is, boy." 

His head down, the boy presses his lips together.

His eyes burn fiercely, but he. Will. Not. Cry.

Crack.

He disobeyed.

Crack.

He deserves to be punished.

Crack.

He. Will. Not. Cry.

The belt rises and falls in a steady rhythm, the hissing sound oddly mesmerising. He feels the skin changing by degrees: reddening; blackening; splitting; bleeding.

"Keep counting, boy," his father suggests quietly.

"F-fifteen..." He knew he would be asked. He always counts. His voice trembles. "S-s-sixteen." He flinches with every sharp blow. "S-seventeen..." His words are barely audible. "Eighteen..." His throat is raw. "N-n-nineteen..." 

He braces himself for the final blow.

It catches him across the base of his back, his legs buckling, his breath rushing from his lungs in a gust.

"Tw-tw-twenty..." he pants, shaking.

Once, he had been unable to voice the last count.

He had received five more stripes for it.

A hand threads through his hair, his face pulled up.

His father stares down at him coldly.

"Perhaps, next time," he says. "You will do what you are told."

Draco nods, winces.

He is released, dropped like a piece of dirt.

His father sweeps towards the door, pauses there, before striding out into the hall. In his wake, the door crashes shut and the boy's shaking legs almost give way beneath him, but his hands hold him steady.

Swallowing hard, he bends and draws his blood-spattered trousers up, his breathing shaking as rough material scrapes over torn skin.

He limps towards his bed, using the shelves and chests to hold himself upright, until he crawls onto the mattress. He rolls onto his side and lies still, gazing blindly into the dimly lit room.

He feels blood seeping through the back of his trousers, but knows that if he tries to stand, he will fall. His eyes still burn and only now, in his father's absence, he lets the tears slip free.

He can still taste blood and his cheek aches.

Painfully drawing his knees up to his chest, he hugs them again and lets tears fall.

He knows that his clothes and bed will be stained by dawn. He knows that he will be crusted and bloody in the morning. He knows that he should move and clean himself before trying to sleep.

As a quiet sob slips past his lips, he knows that he doesn't care about any of that. All he wants is a mother to embrace and cherish him and a father who doesn't beat him for being seen. 

All he wants is to be more than 'boy'.


End file.
